Written By Duarte
Feb. 14, 2021, 2:41 a.m.(12/7/1014 AR)
Journal
I had never missed an appointment and I was never late. Belinha would have to cancel on occasion or would be several minutes to hours late. I mean, she was busy, you know?
But seldom was it she missed two appointments in a row. And she never missed three. Then four.
We had met twice a week for the better part of nearly three years. It took me twice a week for the better part of nearly three months to realize we were not meeting any longer.
It wasn't just the lessons when I had seen her, you know? I would see her around. Going into the bank. Walking down the street. At the marketplace. On the pier. Walking to and from the House of Silken Sighs. It wasn't just the lessons. She was gone entirely.
I would like to say I don't know what happened to her. But I do. It would only be much later that I would find out - quite accidentally - and it will be told much later in my story.
It was my first heartbreak. Losing my father and my brothers was tortuous. This was different. Those hours before the mirror. Those stupid exercises in the streets. The practicing on my own. Memorizing titles and names and places and dishes. Which of the Hundred Cities kiss cheeks, which kiss the air beside cheeks, and which should be greeted with no contact at all. So much committed to memory I've forgotten more than what many ever learn.
This was the death of everything I had worked toward. That wasn't true, as time would go on, but in the sliver of the moment it was true. It was an impotency against the ruthlessness of the world.
As I mentioned, I ran rather low on things to sell. I got a job doing menial tasks for a merchant and cleaning his shop. But my time with Belinha and the practice I put into that precluded my seeking a proper tradesperson with whom I could apprentice. How I kicked myself.
True, I had met many of her friends and attended many parties. But not enough. Not enough to be more than Belinha's escort. Guillermo, Matilde, Mariana, Joale...I would see them and maybe win a small look of recognition. But to ask after Belinha got little more than a shrug.
But it was Ines who explained it best. "Sometimes people just aren't around any more, Duarte."
I had never missed an appointment and I was never late. Belinha would have to cancel on occasion or would be several minutes to hours late. I mean, she was busy, you know?
But seldom was it she missed two appointments in a row. And she never missed three. Then four.
We had met twice a week for the better part of nearly three years. It took me twice a week for the better part of nearly three months to realize we were not meeting any longer.
It wasn't just the lessons when I had seen her, you know? I would see her around. Going into the bank. Walking down the street. At the marketplace. On the pier. Walking to and from the House of Silken Sighs. It wasn't just the lessons. She was gone entirely.
I would like to say I don't know what happened to her. But I do. It would only be much later that I would find out - quite accidentally - and it will be told much later in my story.
It was my first heartbreak. Losing my father and my brothers was tortuous. This was different. Those hours before the mirror. Those stupid exercises in the streets. The practicing on my own. Memorizing titles and names and places and dishes. Which of the Hundred Cities kiss cheeks, which kiss the air beside cheeks, and which should be greeted with no contact at all. So much committed to memory I've forgotten more than what many ever learn.
This was the death of everything I had worked toward. That wasn't true, as time would go on, but in the sliver of the moment it was true. It was an impotency against the ruthlessness of the world.
As I mentioned, I ran rather low on things to sell. I got a job doing menial tasks for a merchant and cleaning his shop. But my time with Belinha and the practice I put into that precluded my seeking a proper tradesperson with whom I could apprentice. How I kicked myself.
True, I had met many of her friends and attended many parties. But not enough. Not enough to be more than Belinha's escort. Guillermo, Matilde, Mariana, Joale...I would see them and maybe win a small look of recognition. But to ask after Belinha got little more than a shrug.
But it was Ines who explained it best. "Sometimes people just aren't around any more, Duarte."
Written By Duarte
Feb. 7, 2021, 4:15 a.m.(11/21/1014 AR)
Journal
Running dangerously low on the silver I acquired from selling my father's tools, and running dangerously low on things to sell in general, I was caught by the imperative to find proper work. Being instructed by Belinha a couple days a week and going to a party every fortnight or so was not lucrative in the slightest. I was getting the hang of some subtleties of how those social waters were navigated, but I had still yet to meet - let alone rub elbows - with anyone of true importance. Not anyone who could give me a job, at least.
So I took to task and went in for earning money by various means. I ran some missives here and there. I was a crier for a little bit. I shined shoes. Unlike some my age I did not take to filching or pickpocketing. This is not to condemn, necessarily, the poor who need to earn living in such a fashion. It's simply that these sorts of money making schemes are coordinated. Someone teaches a child to be so deft - or a great many children - and they all cohabitate and work as a sort of collective. I was on my own for I had the privilege of not wanting for shelter.
But I did want for food and clothing. Belinha had struggled to continue to explain to her friends why I always attended her in the same drab outfits. I needed something nice. She certainly wasn't going to buy it for me.
It seems so long ago - as if just an echo from an imaginary life time - almost dreamlike when I think back to how hard I labored for a seasilk ensemble. Something matching. Something fitted.
I was so proud when I got it. How I got measured for it. When I paid for it. I remember thinking this is what my father must've felt to put food on our table and to provide his three boys with what he did. To keep us housed and clothed. To fill our bellies with his food. To know that his hands had the power to take nothing and scraps of things and turn them into something wanted. And then to receive value from another that he could transmogrify into food or clothing by way of a simple request to yet another for the same in value.
It's long been lost but I kept that outfit for years beyond after I grew out of it. I would look at it from time to time and remember what it took to achieve it and give silent nod to the boy who did it. In all I've chased since I've yet to feel again that same contentment.
Running dangerously low on the silver I acquired from selling my father's tools, and running dangerously low on things to sell in general, I was caught by the imperative to find proper work. Being instructed by Belinha a couple days a week and going to a party every fortnight or so was not lucrative in the slightest. I was getting the hang of some subtleties of how those social waters were navigated, but I had still yet to meet - let alone rub elbows - with anyone of true importance. Not anyone who could give me a job, at least.
So I took to task and went in for earning money by various means. I ran some missives here and there. I was a crier for a little bit. I shined shoes. Unlike some my age I did not take to filching or pickpocketing. This is not to condemn, necessarily, the poor who need to earn living in such a fashion. It's simply that these sorts of money making schemes are coordinated. Someone teaches a child to be so deft - or a great many children - and they all cohabitate and work as a sort of collective. I was on my own for I had the privilege of not wanting for shelter.
But I did want for food and clothing. Belinha had struggled to continue to explain to her friends why I always attended her in the same drab outfits. I needed something nice. She certainly wasn't going to buy it for me.
It seems so long ago - as if just an echo from an imaginary life time - almost dreamlike when I think back to how hard I labored for a seasilk ensemble. Something matching. Something fitted.
I was so proud when I got it. How I got measured for it. When I paid for it. I remember thinking this is what my father must've felt to put food on our table and to provide his three boys with what he did. To keep us housed and clothed. To fill our bellies with his food. To know that his hands had the power to take nothing and scraps of things and turn them into something wanted. And then to receive value from another that he could transmogrify into food or clothing by way of a simple request to yet another for the same in value.
It's long been lost but I kept that outfit for years beyond after I grew out of it. I would look at it from time to time and remember what it took to achieve it and give silent nod to the boy who did it. In all I've chased since I've yet to feel again that same contentment.
Written By Duarte
Jan. 31, 2021, 10:21 p.m.(11/9/1014 AR)
Journal
It seemed like an eternity before Belinha allowed me to accompany her to a party. It was my first introduction to 'high society' - so to speak. I remember it distinctly held in the ballroom of the House of Silken Sighs. It was not so formal that any members of Setarco's ruling house were present. But there were a few ministers, courtiers, an advisor or two, and even some lordlings from abroad who had come on their family's money to be tutored, and of course, attend parties and the beach.
My instinct got the better of me that night. I was a bit timid and soft spoken. But I remembered my lessons and performed what Belinha had taught me to do before the mirror.
Belinha was please as well. "You did very well, Duarte. But don't you have anything interesting to say? You're very quiet."
I didn't, in fact, have anything interesting to say. Conversation at the party had been about vintages, fabrics and outfits. Political manuevers. Some scandalous tales and rumors. I didn't know about any of these things.
So I spent some few months reading about such things. Belihna, of course, liked to gossip and so I learned a few trivial, but salacious, bits. The next party came and I spent the whole evening talking.
"Duarte, you are so boring. You just go on and on and on!"
I was rather upset by the assessment! And my patience with my instructor wore thin, and I let her know a thing or two!
She was a rather serene listener in all circumstances. She waited me out.
"Talking never made anyone interesting, Duarte."
It seemed like an eternity before Belinha allowed me to accompany her to a party. It was my first introduction to 'high society' - so to speak. I remember it distinctly held in the ballroom of the House of Silken Sighs. It was not so formal that any members of Setarco's ruling house were present. But there were a few ministers, courtiers, an advisor or two, and even some lordlings from abroad who had come on their family's money to be tutored, and of course, attend parties and the beach.
My instinct got the better of me that night. I was a bit timid and soft spoken. But I remembered my lessons and performed what Belinha had taught me to do before the mirror.
Belinha was please as well. "You did very well, Duarte. But don't you have anything interesting to say? You're very quiet."
I didn't, in fact, have anything interesting to say. Conversation at the party had been about vintages, fabrics and outfits. Political manuevers. Some scandalous tales and rumors. I didn't know about any of these things.
So I spent some few months reading about such things. Belihna, of course, liked to gossip and so I learned a few trivial, but salacious, bits. The next party came and I spent the whole evening talking.
"Duarte, you are so boring. You just go on and on and on!"
I was rather upset by the assessment! And my patience with my instructor wore thin, and I let her know a thing or two!
She was a rather serene listener in all circumstances. She waited me out.
"Talking never made anyone interesting, Duarte."
Written By Duarte
Jan. 24, 2021, 8:01 p.m.(10/23/1014 AR)
Journal
Belinha would always tell me I was too stiff. After those many months of weekly meetings she took to walking me around town and introducing me to street merchants, bank tellers, strangers in the park or on the beach. She would give whatever her initial pitch was - always some mundane banter of a sort - and then she would say, "This is Duarte," or she would say, "...a good question for Duarte," and look to me. Or she would just look over to me ponderously at a lull in the conversation.
And then I had to accept introductions, bow, respond, or what have you. Generally speaking, a bad reaction on the part of our interlocutor meant I'd done wrong. A good reaction wasn't assessed. It was up to Belinha to decide if I had done a passable job of things. "But he seemed to like me..." wasn't ever an excuse for missing a bow, or for my mouth hanging open, or (worst of all) being stiff.
"When you get to know them Duarte, you can show them whatever you like. Until then, everyone is greeted the same. Who's the highest person you ever hope to meet? The Duke? Okay. So I don't care if it's a grocer, a minister or a street ruffian, they are all the Duke."
Of course, when everyone became the Duke, I became that much stiffer! It was back to the mirror for me. Ten more weeks, I remember.
So I thought something must counterbalance. If I am too stiff despite my best efforts then I need to exaggerate beyond what I feel appropriate in the opposite direction.
The next time Belinha introduced me to a farmer, I swung an arm across my belly and flung the other straight behind me as I dipped from the waist toward the ground, swinging the former arm like it was brush stroke against the dirt.
Belihna was not happy. "That was singularly absurd."
But I was less stiff.
Belinha would always tell me I was too stiff. After those many months of weekly meetings she took to walking me around town and introducing me to street merchants, bank tellers, strangers in the park or on the beach. She would give whatever her initial pitch was - always some mundane banter of a sort - and then she would say, "This is Duarte," or she would say, "...a good question for Duarte," and look to me. Or she would just look over to me ponderously at a lull in the conversation.
And then I had to accept introductions, bow, respond, or what have you. Generally speaking, a bad reaction on the part of our interlocutor meant I'd done wrong. A good reaction wasn't assessed. It was up to Belinha to decide if I had done a passable job of things. "But he seemed to like me..." wasn't ever an excuse for missing a bow, or for my mouth hanging open, or (worst of all) being stiff.
"When you get to know them Duarte, you can show them whatever you like. Until then, everyone is greeted the same. Who's the highest person you ever hope to meet? The Duke? Okay. So I don't care if it's a grocer, a minister or a street ruffian, they are all the Duke."
Of course, when everyone became the Duke, I became that much stiffer! It was back to the mirror for me. Ten more weeks, I remember.
So I thought something must counterbalance. If I am too stiff despite my best efforts then I need to exaggerate beyond what I feel appropriate in the opposite direction.
The next time Belinha introduced me to a farmer, I swung an arm across my belly and flung the other straight behind me as I dipped from the waist toward the ground, swinging the former arm like it was brush stroke against the dirt.
Belihna was not happy. "That was singularly absurd."
But I was less stiff.
Written By Duarte
Jan. 17, 2021, 4:40 a.m.(10/7/1014 AR)
Journal
After a rather rocky start Belinha and I reached an accord. Though I apologized for my ill-mannered temperament, and for threatening her, she was yet convinced I had capacity to follow through. That there'd be no admission for me to the House of Silken Sighs was a thing outside her control.
Our arrangement was thus: she would meet with me twice a week and provide private tutoring in basic matters of etiquette. It was very droll stuff at the time. I remember wondering why so many forks? I remember how silly it was that there would be so many depths of bows that each communicated quite different things and fit different situations. Such nonsense that something as quotidian as sipping soup should be turned into an elegant and unvarying dance.
('Like ships that go out to sea, I spoon my soup away from me.')
If you want to know how it is that Whispers and Suspires and many courtesans across Arvum are so adored for the fineness of their craft, much of it, I challenge, rests right here. There are hundreds, if not thousands, of motions as precise as any clockwork that fit so exactly into the moving system of our lives. These are so drilled and polished in our courtesans - the good ones, anyway - they needn't even think of them. These points of manner grease the rails of life so as to prevent friction.
But I digress too far to the end.
"This is stupid," I said, after the 500th time of greeting myself in the mirror.
"Do it again. Your posture was slouched."
"This is stupid."
"Do it again. You held the hand too long."
"This is stupid."
"Do it again. You held the hand not enough, like it was an insect."
"This is stupid."
"Do it again. You didn't smile."
"This is stupid."
"Do it again. You smiled too much."
"....I did smile too much that time."
It was 20 sessions with Belinha before I could greet the boy in the mirror properly enough for her to move me along. There I was, a petulant orphan boy, being greeted by a well mannered orphan boy. She must've noticed some way I looked when that occurred.
"It's not for you, Duarte, to look and act important. People are important. It's your manners that tell people they are important to you."
The orphan in the mirror was suddenly important to me.
After a rather rocky start Belinha and I reached an accord. Though I apologized for my ill-mannered temperament, and for threatening her, she was yet convinced I had capacity to follow through. That there'd be no admission for me to the House of Silken Sighs was a thing outside her control.
Our arrangement was thus: she would meet with me twice a week and provide private tutoring in basic matters of etiquette. It was very droll stuff at the time. I remember wondering why so many forks? I remember how silly it was that there would be so many depths of bows that each communicated quite different things and fit different situations. Such nonsense that something as quotidian as sipping soup should be turned into an elegant and unvarying dance.
('Like ships that go out to sea, I spoon my soup away from me.')
If you want to know how it is that Whispers and Suspires and many courtesans across Arvum are so adored for the fineness of their craft, much of it, I challenge, rests right here. There are hundreds, if not thousands, of motions as precise as any clockwork that fit so exactly into the moving system of our lives. These are so drilled and polished in our courtesans - the good ones, anyway - they needn't even think of them. These points of manner grease the rails of life so as to prevent friction.
But I digress too far to the end.
"This is stupid," I said, after the 500th time of greeting myself in the mirror.
"Do it again. Your posture was slouched."
"This is stupid."
"Do it again. You held the hand too long."
"This is stupid."
"Do it again. You held the hand not enough, like it was an insect."
"This is stupid."
"Do it again. You didn't smile."
"This is stupid."
"Do it again. You smiled too much."
"....I did smile too much that time."
It was 20 sessions with Belinha before I could greet the boy in the mirror properly enough for her to move me along. There I was, a petulant orphan boy, being greeted by a well mannered orphan boy. She must've noticed some way I looked when that occurred.
"It's not for you, Duarte, to look and act important. People are important. It's your manners that tell people they are important to you."
The orphan in the mirror was suddenly important to me.
Written By Duarte
Jan. 10, 2021, 9:30 p.m.(9/23/1014 AR)
Journal
To say Belinha took me in is yet another inaccuracy. Much akin to my usual claims that I trained with courtesans, it merely saves time.
After our initial conversation on that rainy day I made it a point to run into her when I could: at the market, the bank or on the street. I am sure she found me a harmless cute lad but I thought the world of her. She was incredibly kind, but more than this, she could wield that kindness more masterfully than any adept swordsman handles their weapon.
For the better part of a year, perhaps once or twice a week, I would catch her and we would speak about such things as the weather or current happenings. I soon came to find out she liked to gossip. And she would then gossip at me about a great many number of people of whom I had never heard. I, being just a boy - and an orphan living alone at that - had nothing to contribute. So I would listen.
I should perhaps here enter that I am an avid reader - well, I used to be. Whereas now I read largely accounts, and Accounts, then I would read fantasy stories of intrigue, pirates, adventure, all sorts of things. And, being a boy who liked to read - still young - it was an oft thing to desire to be the characters I read about. How brave! How cunning! How dauntless!
Eventually (thanks to those books) I had gotten up the courage to ask Belinha to take me on as a student and admit me to the House of Silken Sighs. She thought it was very cute, laughed it off, and said no it would be impossible. And besides, a kid off the street with no discernible talent would reflect poorly on her.
I am not quite sure what gripped me in that moment save perhaps the pique of youth that Orland so often portrays. I said, "Well then maybe I'll tell Sorino what you said about him and Lady Rita."
To this day I do not know who Sorino or Lady Rita were, but I had never seen someone suddenly turn so white.
To say Belinha took me in is yet another inaccuracy. Much akin to my usual claims that I trained with courtesans, it merely saves time.
After our initial conversation on that rainy day I made it a point to run into her when I could: at the market, the bank or on the street. I am sure she found me a harmless cute lad but I thought the world of her. She was incredibly kind, but more than this, she could wield that kindness more masterfully than any adept swordsman handles their weapon.
For the better part of a year, perhaps once or twice a week, I would catch her and we would speak about such things as the weather or current happenings. I soon came to find out she liked to gossip. And she would then gossip at me about a great many number of people of whom I had never heard. I, being just a boy - and an orphan living alone at that - had nothing to contribute. So I would listen.
I should perhaps here enter that I am an avid reader - well, I used to be. Whereas now I read largely accounts, and Accounts, then I would read fantasy stories of intrigue, pirates, adventure, all sorts of things. And, being a boy who liked to read - still young - it was an oft thing to desire to be the characters I read about. How brave! How cunning! How dauntless!
Eventually (thanks to those books) I had gotten up the courage to ask Belinha to take me on as a student and admit me to the House of Silken Sighs. She thought it was very cute, laughed it off, and said no it would be impossible. And besides, a kid off the street with no discernible talent would reflect poorly on her.
I am not quite sure what gripped me in that moment save perhaps the pique of youth that Orland so often portrays. I said, "Well then maybe I'll tell Sorino what you said about him and Lady Rita."
To this day I do not know who Sorino or Lady Rita were, but I had never seen someone suddenly turn so white.
Written By Duarte
Jan. 3, 2021, 11:05 p.m.(9/9/1014 AR)
Journal
Belinha was a tall and captivating woman. She had those sort of eyes that let you know she saw your soul for what it was. And you could say anything to her, in any way you cared to deliver it, no matter how convincingly, and she would still seem to know who you were.
She was a Suspire and I saw her around often. She wasn't the most beautiful but she was the most confident. Even her charges and her clients seemed rather to be entertaining her rather than the other way to.
I didn't know her name those early days when I would see her pass. I just knew that I had to ask her one question.
I waited every day for a chance to ask that question. She was always surrounded. Always catering to the clientele. Always engaged in tutoring her classes.
8 months I waited. Until one day...
It was an odd day of rain in Setarco when chance should have it she came for shelter 'neath an the overhang of a local market where I had just purchased my week's loaf. She look like she had been crying, but it may have just been the rain. I'm almost certain it was the rain. I stared at her for a good long while, stonied. I couldn't speak. But then she, rather, spoke to me. I'd never been looked at like that before. Never dreamed it, even. Not a seductive look - mind you. Just a look. Given with such ease. A tossed-off glance to me, an orphan lad barely living. A look that made me feel as if I was the only person who ever existed.
I forgot entire what I was going to ask her. Instead I uttered, "How did you do that?"
Belinha was a tall and captivating woman. She had those sort of eyes that let you know she saw your soul for what it was. And you could say anything to her, in any way you cared to deliver it, no matter how convincingly, and she would still seem to know who you were.
She was a Suspire and I saw her around often. She wasn't the most beautiful but she was the most confident. Even her charges and her clients seemed rather to be entertaining her rather than the other way to.
I didn't know her name those early days when I would see her pass. I just knew that I had to ask her one question.
I waited every day for a chance to ask that question. She was always surrounded. Always catering to the clientele. Always engaged in tutoring her classes.
8 months I waited. Until one day...
It was an odd day of rain in Setarco when chance should have it she came for shelter 'neath an the overhang of a local market where I had just purchased my week's loaf. She look like she had been crying, but it may have just been the rain. I'm almost certain it was the rain. I stared at her for a good long while, stonied. I couldn't speak. But then she, rather, spoke to me. I'd never been looked at like that before. Never dreamed it, even. Not a seductive look - mind you. Just a look. Given with such ease. A tossed-off glance to me, an orphan lad barely living. A look that made me feel as if I was the only person who ever existed.
I forgot entire what I was going to ask her. Instead I uttered, "How did you do that?"
Written By Duarte
Dec. 31, 2020, 6:12 a.m.(9/2/1014 AR)
Journal
I had already been orphaned when João fled Setarco. We all had been. But now I was alone.
But I had been lucky. "Orphan" can cover a great many experiences. In the case of my ward, Lord Orland, it means never knowing your parents at all. It means growing in a communal house with other children. It means owning nothing. Inheriting nothing.
I, at least, had known my father. I had our little shack. I had his tools I could sell for money, along with what little belongings Tiago had and what João had left behind.
As an aside: I don't presume João is dead. Were he to return to my life he would not find any solace in my house and I would not grant him a title.
I had to determine how to live at this point. Selling used tools, clothing and possessions would not last forever. But I had no skills to speak of. I had no family. I didn't particularly know anybody.
But I would see, often, the Suspires. They would be draped in exquisite finery. They would be attending to some of the wealthiest in the city. They would ornament the arms of foreign dignitaries. Often they would come and go from the Pravus estate itself. Aristocrats from all over Setara and even some from across the Lyceum seas would arrive. They would attend instruction in the House of Silken Sighs during the days and would carouse in the evenings, accompanied often by the very same.
If ever any two things in existence stood as distinct opposites, it would have been me watching them. There was the life of abundant means. Abundant feeling. I was watching what it meant to survive several echelons above barest necessity.
I have often told people I trained as a courtier, this being a bit of a shortcut, but it isn't true. I've never been instructed as a courtier. I could never afford admission to the House of Silken Sighs. I was not in possession of any such means. I was not in possession of any talent, recognition, birthright or promise to be 'taken in' either.
But if I could just talk to one...
I had already been orphaned when João fled Setarco. We all had been. But now I was alone.
But I had been lucky. "Orphan" can cover a great many experiences. In the case of my ward, Lord Orland, it means never knowing your parents at all. It means growing in a communal house with other children. It means owning nothing. Inheriting nothing.
I, at least, had known my father. I had our little shack. I had his tools I could sell for money, along with what little belongings Tiago had and what João had left behind.
As an aside: I don't presume João is dead. Were he to return to my life he would not find any solace in my house and I would not grant him a title.
I had to determine how to live at this point. Selling used tools, clothing and possessions would not last forever. But I had no skills to speak of. I had no family. I didn't particularly know anybody.
But I would see, often, the Suspires. They would be draped in exquisite finery. They would be attending to some of the wealthiest in the city. They would ornament the arms of foreign dignitaries. Often they would come and go from the Pravus estate itself. Aristocrats from all over Setara and even some from across the Lyceum seas would arrive. They would attend instruction in the House of Silken Sighs during the days and would carouse in the evenings, accompanied often by the very same.
If ever any two things in existence stood as distinct opposites, it would have been me watching them. There was the life of abundant means. Abundant feeling. I was watching what it meant to survive several echelons above barest necessity.
I have often told people I trained as a courtier, this being a bit of a shortcut, but it isn't true. I've never been instructed as a courtier. I could never afford admission to the House of Silken Sighs. I was not in possession of any such means. I was not in possession of any talent, recognition, birthright or promise to be 'taken in' either.
But if I could just talk to one...
Written By Duarte
Dec. 28, 2020, 4:48 a.m.(8/23/1014 AR)
Journal
The loss of my father was a painful thing to bear as a child. He was my only guardian and sole provider. One night in mixed company he incautiously made some statements about a merchant prince. My father was jealous, you see, and had high ideas he might take his fledgling little shop and move in on some of the market. Silly things, really. My father hadn't the acumen to do such a thing. He was drunk.
But whatever he said was enough. The merchant prince had him murdered in plain daylight.
When people think of murder in the Lyceum generally, or in Setarco particularly, it is a bit romanticized. Dirty tricks. Underhanded means. Poison. Sneaky. Clean. This was not that. Most of the murders I've seen have been not that.
I never forgot the name of the man responsible for having my father killed. I remembered it well into my 20s and remember it still today. I heard he's some time since disappeared. No I haven't the /slightest/ clue what happened to him.
But I've two older brothers of whom I've rarely spoken to anyone. After my father was slain we made a pact. It was a tenuous thing, promptly crushed by certain realities of life.
The oldest one, Tiago, died dueling. It was pathetic, really, how it happened, and not unlike my father. Harsh words hurled incautiously at the wrong people. At least Tiago's killer had the honor and courage to challenge him directly and face him down personally.
My other older brother, João, with whom I was the closest, fled the city a few weeks later for fear of retribution for his own missteps - of which I know very little.
Duarte Amadeo was then an orphan.
The loss of my father was a painful thing to bear as a child. He was my only guardian and sole provider. One night in mixed company he incautiously made some statements about a merchant prince. My father was jealous, you see, and had high ideas he might take his fledgling little shop and move in on some of the market. Silly things, really. My father hadn't the acumen to do such a thing. He was drunk.
But whatever he said was enough. The merchant prince had him murdered in plain daylight.
When people think of murder in the Lyceum generally, or in Setarco particularly, it is a bit romanticized. Dirty tricks. Underhanded means. Poison. Sneaky. Clean. This was not that. Most of the murders I've seen have been not that.
I never forgot the name of the man responsible for having my father killed. I remembered it well into my 20s and remember it still today. I heard he's some time since disappeared. No I haven't the /slightest/ clue what happened to him.
But I've two older brothers of whom I've rarely spoken to anyone. After my father was slain we made a pact. It was a tenuous thing, promptly crushed by certain realities of life.
The oldest one, Tiago, died dueling. It was pathetic, really, how it happened, and not unlike my father. Harsh words hurled incautiously at the wrong people. At least Tiago's killer had the honor and courage to challenge him directly and face him down personally.
My other older brother, João, with whom I was the closest, fled the city a few weeks later for fear of retribution for his own missteps - of which I know very little.
Duarte Amadeo was then an orphan.
Written By Duarte
Dec. 22, 2020, 2:34 a.m.(8/11/1014 AR)
Journal
When I awoke this morning I set out to have an uninspired day. But as I received and dealt with my correspondences I could not help but notice the date of each. Come to find it has been nearly eight years since Duchess Belladonna elevated me from my station as a minister for House Pravus to Count of Bravura.
Here as I peruse my entries over the years I see I have been dreadfully derelict in fulfilling what I considered a theological imperative. Call it laziness or, worse perhaps, timidity.
Though I could cast the story of my life to the blacks, I might well be remiss in doing so. I'm sure the details of my ascension are of some interest. If not now, perhaps in the future. Hundreds of years from now, even, when scholars look for what scraps and bits remain to learn what of the culture that was once the Lyceum. Perhaps some of these pages will help progeny see just how fine and honorable were its people. The freedoms they enjoyed. The merits they celebrated.
Here is the first of many installments as I have the chance to write them.
---
It starts as a youth. I never knew my mother but I hear she was homely. There used to be a sketch of her that my father drew and hung above his work bench. Every day he would look at it (he had to, you see?) and he'd say, "I'll make sure the kids eat today." And then he would.
That picture might as well have been the woman. My brothers and I were not allowed to curse in its presence. We could not fight in any space the picture overlooked. Silly, now, looking back upon it, but recent reconciliations have led me to realize I am in many ways as sentimental as he - just perhaps not so mawkish.
He was a cobbler. Primarily he mended shoes and was not much of a crafter, but he did make some on occasion as well. He also made other leather goods like simple satchels and purses. When I was six he made me a coin purse that I would hang off my belt. The merchants could hear me coming to pick up a morning tea or nails for my father because I would run and the coins would clatter in that purse.
I loved my father. I miss him dearly even now. The only person who has spoken to me about my father in ten years is Legate Bianca, and that was five years ago.
But he was a cobbler. I honor him today in the sigil I fashioned for my house. They are cobblers tools but, in many ways, are also emblematic of the creativity and industry of Bravura itself.
When I awoke this morning I set out to have an uninspired day. But as I received and dealt with my correspondences I could not help but notice the date of each. Come to find it has been nearly eight years since Duchess Belladonna elevated me from my station as a minister for House Pravus to Count of Bravura.
Here as I peruse my entries over the years I see I have been dreadfully derelict in fulfilling what I considered a theological imperative. Call it laziness or, worse perhaps, timidity.
Though I could cast the story of my life to the blacks, I might well be remiss in doing so. I'm sure the details of my ascension are of some interest. If not now, perhaps in the future. Hundreds of years from now, even, when scholars look for what scraps and bits remain to learn what of the culture that was once the Lyceum. Perhaps some of these pages will help progeny see just how fine and honorable were its people. The freedoms they enjoyed. The merits they celebrated.
Here is the first of many installments as I have the chance to write them.
---
It starts as a youth. I never knew my mother but I hear she was homely. There used to be a sketch of her that my father drew and hung above his work bench. Every day he would look at it (he had to, you see?) and he'd say, "I'll make sure the kids eat today." And then he would.
That picture might as well have been the woman. My brothers and I were not allowed to curse in its presence. We could not fight in any space the picture overlooked. Silly, now, looking back upon it, but recent reconciliations have led me to realize I am in many ways as sentimental as he - just perhaps not so mawkish.
He was a cobbler. Primarily he mended shoes and was not much of a crafter, but he did make some on occasion as well. He also made other leather goods like simple satchels and purses. When I was six he made me a coin purse that I would hang off my belt. The merchants could hear me coming to pick up a morning tea or nails for my father because I would run and the coins would clatter in that purse.
I loved my father. I miss him dearly even now. The only person who has spoken to me about my father in ten years is Legate Bianca, and that was five years ago.
But he was a cobbler. I honor him today in the sigil I fashioned for my house. They are cobblers tools but, in many ways, are also emblematic of the creativity and industry of Bravura itself.
Written By Duarte
Dec. 16, 2020, 3:52 p.m.(7/28/1014 AR)
Relationship Note on Savio
Savio's extremely detailed and precise minutes recorded at the Navel Contemplation Conflagration is entirely accurate.
Written By Duarte
Dec. 14, 2020, 8:09 a.m.(7/24/1014 AR)
Relationship Note on Sasha
I'm sure Prince Valerius would be equally shocked that one would use his very name to impugn the character of his widow - whom he so dearly loved.
There is not a soul on this continent whose ire is more frightening to countenance than Lianne Malespero.
Her patient, calculated maneuvering needn't be diluted by scrambling and uncoordinated efforts fueled by just the sort of reckless emotion you've already displayed.
Mourn as you must, but don't get in the way.
From tragedy, strength.
There is not a soul on this continent whose ire is more frightening to countenance than Lianne Malespero.
Her patient, calculated maneuvering needn't be diluted by scrambling and uncoordinated efforts fueled by just the sort of reckless emotion you've already displayed.
Mourn as you must, but don't get in the way.
From tragedy, strength.
Written By Duarte
Dec. 12, 2020, 2:19 p.m.(7/20/1014 AR)
Relationship Note on Quenia
Poetry in the whites seems to be popular these days.
----
Sun's light, unbounded
From sky above clouds and wishes
Of peaks melts
Ice
The way you
Melt
Every vestige of defenses
Packed in like snow
Around
A decrepit heart
Yielding heavenly nutrients
Again like sun
To seed
Which sprout anew
After winter's death
Love is reborn
In your eyes
----
Sun's light, unbounded
From sky above clouds and wishes
Of peaks melts
Ice
The way you
Melt
Every vestige of defenses
Packed in like snow
Around
A decrepit heart
Yielding heavenly nutrients
Again like sun
To seed
Which sprout anew
After winter's death
Love is reborn
In your eyes
Written By Duarte
Aug. 31, 2020, 5:43 a.m.(12/9/1013 AR)
Perhaps learned too late in life have I found that it is only through the veneration of the Gods of the Pantheon - their essences and their aspects alike - have I ever experienced any great relief, found any strength or healed deep afflictions strong enough to have inflicted my heart and character.
Where I have attempted the confrontation of the so called Abyss - a term I trust with many has become familiar if not only in passing - I have met only suffering and loss. Even when such was countenanced with preparedness in far excess of what I had supposed necessary. Even when done with the purest of intent - if such could be believed.
I would suppose my experiences to be of anecdotal value only if I had not, in a long career of haunting myriad disparate evils, watching sundry walks of life from the shadows and supplying to many of the same (who trusted me beyond reason) with what would be their finality, observed that those I have watched to some extent slowly twisted themselves and perished in totality, if not in a large extent - giving in to the evil they thought they were fighting and leaving them dead or mutilated their soul until they were a mere semblance of themselves. Breath and bones only with nightmares they can't escape.
There is, of course, time for the direct confrontation of evil. The Gyre War, for example. But wasn't such an example of license taken by many to tempt and taunt and prod and posture against those very elements? And wasn't the defeat of the enemy in larger extent creditable to those who sang, those who prayed, those who blessed their swords and their shields, and those who fought in reverence for and to Gloria?
I have simply become convinced that it is the devotion of attention itself that grants life to the evils we fear, the evils we fight and the evils that haunt us and ours. And by the reflective nature of our world, the same feeds our Gods and therefore Their ideals represented within us.
A manner of success shall come with our hearts, minds and prime focus to the ideals that have built our civilization, have bound us to Arvum and have lifted the races of humanity to win Petrichor's favor for dominion over this land, and with none but a wary eye to the reflections.
The more we fight Them as a primary concern that weighs ahead of our devotions, the stronger They grow. Our attention, our minds, our babble - all of it - are like bellows to the flame that will consume this land and all who inhabit it.
Where I have attempted the confrontation of the so called Abyss - a term I trust with many has become familiar if not only in passing - I have met only suffering and loss. Even when such was countenanced with preparedness in far excess of what I had supposed necessary. Even when done with the purest of intent - if such could be believed.
I would suppose my experiences to be of anecdotal value only if I had not, in a long career of haunting myriad disparate evils, watching sundry walks of life from the shadows and supplying to many of the same (who trusted me beyond reason) with what would be their finality, observed that those I have watched to some extent slowly twisted themselves and perished in totality, if not in a large extent - giving in to the evil they thought they were fighting and leaving them dead or mutilated their soul until they were a mere semblance of themselves. Breath and bones only with nightmares they can't escape.
There is, of course, time for the direct confrontation of evil. The Gyre War, for example. But wasn't such an example of license taken by many to tempt and taunt and prod and posture against those very elements? And wasn't the defeat of the enemy in larger extent creditable to those who sang, those who prayed, those who blessed their swords and their shields, and those who fought in reverence for and to Gloria?
I have simply become convinced that it is the devotion of attention itself that grants life to the evils we fear, the evils we fight and the evils that haunt us and ours. And by the reflective nature of our world, the same feeds our Gods and therefore Their ideals represented within us.
A manner of success shall come with our hearts, minds and prime focus to the ideals that have built our civilization, have bound us to Arvum and have lifted the races of humanity to win Petrichor's favor for dominion over this land, and with none but a wary eye to the reflections.
The more we fight Them as a primary concern that weighs ahead of our devotions, the stronger They grow. Our attention, our minds, our babble - all of it - are like bellows to the flame that will consume this land and all who inhabit it.
Written By Duarte
April 14, 2020, 12:49 a.m.(2/10/1013 AR)
Relationship Note on Arianna
I know at least three who are finally able to get a full night's sleep now knowing you're no longer around, prowling and prodding.
It's too bad, really, as each one was never deserving of the luxury to keep both eyes shut.
It's too bad, really, as each one was never deserving of the luxury to keep both eyes shut.
Written By Duarte
March 23, 2020, 3:39 a.m.(12/23/1012 AR)
Relationship Note on Quenia
Your skin glows like the grapes, blossoms delicate as the posies in the purest hope of spring.
My heart follows your harp voice and leaps like a meerkat at the whisper of your name.
The evening floats in on a great nightingale wing.
I am comforted by your gown that I carry into the twilight of heart beams and hold next to my fingers.
I am filled with hope that I may dry your tears of wine.
As my hands fall from my coat, it reminds me of your ring.
In the quiet, I listen for the last sigh of the day.
My heated forehead leaps to my slippers. I wait in the moonlight for your secret gold so that we may graze as one, forehead to forehead, in search of the magnificent red and mystical stick of love.
My heart follows your harp voice and leaps like a meerkat at the whisper of your name.
The evening floats in on a great nightingale wing.
I am comforted by your gown that I carry into the twilight of heart beams and hold next to my fingers.
I am filled with hope that I may dry your tears of wine.
As my hands fall from my coat, it reminds me of your ring.
In the quiet, I listen for the last sigh of the day.
My heated forehead leaps to my slippers. I wait in the moonlight for your secret gold so that we may graze as one, forehead to forehead, in search of the magnificent red and mystical stick of love.
Written By Duarte
Sept. 7, 2019, 12:49 p.m.(10/16/1011 AR)
My day and night in the Shrine of Jayus was inspiring, to say the least, but of an odd sort.
I was inspired with desire to create but not the /what/ to create. I felt myself struggling to climb a wall to see just over the feeling of inspiration.
In the end I was left motionless and in mystery about it.
Our crafters and artists are indeed gifted and are a cut above the non-specifically inspired such as myself.
I was inspired with desire to create but not the /what/ to create. I felt myself struggling to climb a wall to see just over the feeling of inspiration.
In the end I was left motionless and in mystery about it.
Our crafters and artists are indeed gifted and are a cut above the non-specifically inspired such as myself.
Written By Duarte
Aug. 20, 2019, 5:08 p.m.(9/8/1011 AR)
What a lovely day outside today.
Written By Duarte
Aug. 11, 2019, 1:34 a.m.(8/17/1011 AR)
Manners were created to impart to others that they are considered important. Etiquette greases the works of human relations so business, matters of state and other affairs can be conducted at all. There is nothing self-serving or vane about manners. Indeed, just such behavior is often classified as "bad manner".
On another note of curiosity: when did the shav'arvani become a homogeneous people with a single shared culture?
Don't get me wrong - all my dealings with prodigals have been quite pleasant. I have sat at the table and assisted the re-introduction of abandoned tribes and families to the peerage. All very upstanding folk. Very commendable. Very civilized.
It certainly stands to reason that those abandoned families who deal with the Compact on the regular, settle near feudal land and are part of treaties, discussions, trade, or are open and considering re-introduction to the Compact would be the most civilized, well-mannered and culturally compatible tribes. Which makes "observing them" for "study" altogether silly. Some people need bigger problems.
But let's not pretend /all/ the shav'arvani across all of Arvum are Count Rivenshari's "people". They simply are not. Not in speech, manner, look or culture. It would be quite like me saying House Crovane are "my people" because we each don't reside in Eurus.
Many shav tribes across this continent are indeed backward and have inflicted savagery upon our holdings and lands and people or are involved in heretical cultism, and etc. I'm sure any person who has truly traveled this Continent - especially those charged with keeping peace or protecting charges throughout travel - can tell you. I'm just afraid that if you want to "observe them" you will have to travel farther than 20 feet beyond the city's limits.
On another note of curiosity: when did the shav'arvani become a homogeneous people with a single shared culture?
Don't get me wrong - all my dealings with prodigals have been quite pleasant. I have sat at the table and assisted the re-introduction of abandoned tribes and families to the peerage. All very upstanding folk. Very commendable. Very civilized.
It certainly stands to reason that those abandoned families who deal with the Compact on the regular, settle near feudal land and are part of treaties, discussions, trade, or are open and considering re-introduction to the Compact would be the most civilized, well-mannered and culturally compatible tribes. Which makes "observing them" for "study" altogether silly. Some people need bigger problems.
But let's not pretend /all/ the shav'arvani across all of Arvum are Count Rivenshari's "people". They simply are not. Not in speech, manner, look or culture. It would be quite like me saying House Crovane are "my people" because we each don't reside in Eurus.
Many shav tribes across this continent are indeed backward and have inflicted savagery upon our holdings and lands and people or are involved in heretical cultism, and etc. I'm sure any person who has truly traveled this Continent - especially those charged with keeping peace or protecting charges throughout travel - can tell you. I'm just afraid that if you want to "observe them" you will have to travel farther than 20 feet beyond the city's limits.
Written By Duarte
July 24, 2019, 12:28 a.m.(7/9/1011 AR)
My tour thus far has taken me through the Triads of Creations and Concepts. I know not why I'd never done this sooner. Such meditations bring a peace of mind.
Next are the three who patron arts and sciences. I begin with Jayus.
Next are the three who patron arts and sciences. I begin with Jayus.
Please note that the scholars may take some time preparing your journal for others to read.